


Things I Shouldn't Have Done

by Skalidra



Series: 100 Prompts [11]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6254791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With everything happening in the world, Dick's visits to see Jason are few and far between. He knows Jason is getting in fights, and not doing all that well in Arkham, but he doesn't see just how bad things are. At least not until he gets a call from Commissioner Gordon, demanding he come to Gotham General Hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things I Shouldn't Have Done

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So I was going to write something else, but I just really needed more of this world. So I cherry-picked a prompt and went for it. XD This is prompt number 38, Abandoned! Enjjoooyyy!

The second time he brings himself to go see Jason, things are even worse.

To go with a black eye and a lurid bruise over his right cheek there are bruised knuckles, two fingers locked straight in a cast that implies he might have broken them. Probably on someone’s face, even though Dick swears Jason is smarter than to aim for bone when his hands don’t have any protection. The knuckles tell enough of a story though, and he can’t argue fact when it’s right in front of his face.

He hasn’t heard of any deaths, so that’s good news, but Jason’s clearly been getting in fights. It probably wouldn’t take much work to find out, but honestly, he doesn’t want to know. He’s got _so much_ on his plate right now and dealing with a couple fights in Arkham is just not high enough a priority for him to sacrifice everything else that needs to get done.

Tim is off halfway around the world on what might very well be a suicide mission, hellbent on finding Bruce even though everyone knows he’s _dead_. Damian is slowly easing into his position but they still fight, things are bad. God, and there’s the Titans, the League, and he has _so much_ to do and so little time to do it. He’s ragged, feels stretched too far, and the worst part is that he knows that this was Bruce’s constant life.

He might not ever measure up to that particular memory.

So when Jason startles awake, and then won’t stop glaring at him, won’t stop hissing little biting snaps that hurt more than they should, he doesn’t have the patience to deal with it. He’s too tired, too busy, and he snaps right back at Jason and only stops to feel guilty once he’s gone, with Jason’s bruised face and shocked expression lingering in his mind.

The third time, Jason won’t talk to him. Won’t look at him. Won’t even react to what he manages to string together in the way of words, apologies and pleas both. There aren’t any bruises to his face that time, but there’s a fresh layer of them over his knuckles, though it doesn’t look like he broke anything recently.

Jason stays sitting against the wall, gaze turned down and towards the blanket still covering his legs. Eventually, when it becomes clear that Jason is a long ways from even considering forgiving him, he gives up and leaves.

Months go by, and he honestly doesn’t mean to leave it so long but things are hectic. Bruce might be alive after all, and that puts a whole new spin on the world.

So it’s a long time before he comes back, and Jason is lying still on the cot and doesn’t even push up to talk to him. This time the only injury is a split lip, but Jason is visibly hazy, unfocused even when he’s clearly seen Dick.

He ends up crossing the room, sinking down to his knees and reaching out to comb Jason’s hair — longer now — back from his face. Blue-green eyes watch him, somewhere between exhausted and unbelieving, but no words come.

So he breaks the silence, murmurs, “Little Wing, you’ve got to stop getting in these fights.”

Jason’s eyes shutter, forehead drawing into a small wince. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Jason’s voice is a slightly slurred whisper. “Hallucinations aren’t usually _jackasses_.”

He pauses, combs a bit more of Jason’s hair away. “I’m real, Jason. I’m here.” When Jason looks at him, he manages a small smile. By the way Jason stares, it probably doesn’t look right under the cowl hiding half his face. “What kind of medications have they got you on?”

Jason’s shoulders shift in a small shrug. “How the fuck should I know? It’s a mix.”

“Tell me about the effects?” he asks, careful to keep it a question and not a command. “It doesn’t look fun.”

“I’m not insane,” Jason murmurs instead of answering, tilting away from the fingers in his hair. “I’m _not_. How do you justify this? How do you…?” He reaches in, touches Jason’s temple, and Jason flinches and jerks away, back a few inches underneath the sheets. “Don’t _touch_ me.”

“Jason—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” is what gets hissed at him. “You don’t get to throw me in this hell and expect us to be alright. You don’t—” Jason shudders, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m _not crazy_ , Goldie. Don’t leave me here. The drugs aren’t— Just get me _out_.”

He winces, slowly withdrawing his hand because apparently it’s not welcome anymore. “I can’t right now,” he admits. Jason’s eyes snap open, and there’s sharp _pain_ in them. “There is so much going on with the Titans, and the League, and it’s all fallen on my shoulders and I just don’t have the time. But look, when things calm down I’ll make a few calls. We can get you put through a few tests, and if the psychologist gives you an all clear we’ll move you to a different prison. Alright?”

Jason draws deeper underneath the sheets, back against the wall. Those eyes close, a shudder shaking shoulders that look a little less broad at this angle than he remembers. It worries him for a moment, and he almost reaches out before remembering that he’ll probably only get snapped at.

“Get out,” Jason breathes, and he jerks a little bit in surprise.

“Jason, wait. When I have time—”

“Get _out_. I’m not your… your fucking pity project. I _won’t_ be. Don’t come back; don’t you _dare_.” His blood runs cold. “As long as you think I belong in here with _them_ , we’re done.”

“You can’t mean—”

“ _Out_ ,” Jason repeats again, with a bit more strength to his voice. “I don’t want you around, Goldie. Just go away. Let me rot in peace.”

He tries to find words to argue that, but can’t. He’s seen too much of Jason’s behavior to think it’s completely sane, and without someone professional promising him that it is he _won’t_ believe that everything Jason’s done was done completely clear-minded. If he loses that hope, he’ll lose the hope that he can save his family. That’s not an option.

So he just murmurs, “I’m sorry,” before he turns and leaves.

Jason doesn’t say a word.

* * *

Three weeks later he gets a call.

Gordon, and the voice of the Commissioner is stern and worried when he says, “You need to get to Gotham General Hospital, room two-forty-six. Now.”

He’s in the middle of work on a few upcoming plans, but that tone of voice spurs him into action. He grunts a quick confirmation — now he knows why Bruce tended to communicate in grunts when possible — and then hangs up, dragging himself into the rest of the suit and heading out as quickly as possible.

He still takes the subtle way in, bringing up the layout and then finding the window to the room from outside. There’s light in it, and he takes enough of a glance inside to see Gordon leaning against the wall by the door before slipping inside. Gordon looks up, but doesn’t uncross his arms or push off the wall.

“I don’t know what kind of relationship the two of you had with him, but it looked complicated enough that I thought you’d want to be here.” Gordon’s head tilts towards the bed, and he turns to look.

Freezes on the spot. Then rushes forward honestly faster than he should but to _hell_ with it, Gordon knows more about them than pretty much anyone else on Earth.

“Jason,” he says helplessly, pausing at the side of the bed to actually stop and look.

Jason’s unconscious, but breathing, which might just be a miracle given the collection of dark bruises scattered all over his face and the small bit of his upper chest that’s visible. There’s an oxygen mask over the lower half of his face, and he’s hooked up to a few machines carefully recording his pulse and heartbeat. Both slower than they should be, but not dangerously so. The IV hooked into his wrist is slowly pumping in something that looks like straight blood, and a glance at the pole holding the bag confirms it.

“What happened?” he asks, looking back at Gordon.

Gordon’s whole face tightens. “He was attacked. Internal bleeding, and it looks like someone involved had a knife. We haven’t had the time to get a look at the security recordings yet, but they’re being sent to the GCPD now. Arkham didn’t have the medical equipment to save him; he lost a lot of blood.”

His jaw clenches, and the mad, _furious_ part of him wants to go straight to Arkham Asylum and go after the most likely targets. Joker at the top of the list. But he breathes that part away, tightens his hands to fists and then eases them again so he can force himself to relax. Violence won’t solve anything, not like this. The best information will come from those security recordings, and from Jason, whenever he wakes up.

To that end, he takes two stiff steps to the end of the bed and grabs the chart that’s hanging there, looking over what they’ve given Jason and what information there is about the injuries. He grabs the pen beside it too, and occupies himself filling in the little bits of history and past treatment that he knows. Everything past Jason’s death is mostly a mystery, but he’s spent enough time staring at Jason’s files in the computer to have what they do know pretty much memorized.

“Thanks for the call,” he says, belatedly.

Gordon sighs, and then there’s the tap of shoes until Gordon’s standing right next to him. “Of course. Look, you’ve been visiting him, haven’t you? Did anything seem off to you? Anything to suggest that there was something going on?”

He pauses, sets the chart down and turns to study Gordon. The expression on the older man’s face is not encouraging. He thinks about it a bit, and finally offers, “Nothing I didn’t expect. He was getting in fights. Bruises, messed up knuckles. He had a couple broken fingers one time. Why?”

Instead of relaxing, Gordon actually seems to stiffen up even further. “Fights?” A sharp glance at Jason, that almost looks worried, and then Gordon speaks again. “The GCPD is supposed to get reports of all fights that happen in Arkham, and none have come through involving him. We don’t get contacted about small things, but broken fingers? At the least, that should have showed up. I think there might have been something going on behind our backs; he’s got a lot of bruises that look older, and…”

“What?” he asks immediately, and Gordon meets his gaze with narrowed eyes.

“To your knowledge, did he have any tattoos before?”

Dick startles, blinks and then blurts out, “No? I— I haven’t seen every _inch_ of him, but no tattoos that I know of.”

“You would have noticed this one,” Gordon says, voice dark and grim. “Doctors didn’t give him anything, they said he had a lot of drugs in his system and they’re still running tests to find out exactly what the mix is. The Arkham psychologists he had a couple sessions with didn’t _give_ him any prescriptions though, not according to what they said, and there are some traces in his system that look an awful lot like fear gas and Joker venom. I think…” Gordon shakes his head, draws in a deeper breath. “My gut says there was something _bad_ going on down there. And we missed it.”

“How bad?” he asks, almost fearing the answer but he has to _know_.

Gordon’s crossed arms tighten a little bit. “Drugs no one prescribed, fear gas, Joker venom, and the injuries he’s got, old and new? Frankly, he looks like he’s been playing combination punching bag/test subject since he got in there. The one part of him not bruised? His knuckles. He wasn’t fighting back; or couldn’t. Either way, it’s not good.”

He closes his eyes, fighting not to tighten his hands to fists and betray any more of how angry he is. Or how quickly that anger is turning into guilt. Jason had nearly straight out _said it_ , hadn’t he? Everything pointed to serious fights happening, and he just ignored it. Even if this weren’t true, he was playing with Jason’s life, leaving him in there with a bunch of psychopaths and criminals. With the _Joker_.

There’s no excuse for his part in letting this happen.

“He’s going to live, right?” Gordon nods, and he immediately follows up with, “Who else knows that?”

There’s a pause where Gordon shoots him a sharp look. “Us, the two cops at the door, and the medical personnel who worked on him. They weren’t entirely sure he was going to make it, last I heard, but were pretty confident. I’ll tell you right now, I’m pretty sure he won’t survive you pulling him over your shoulder and swinging off.”

He ignores that remark, because honestly he _did_ think about it. “Keep it quiet,” he murmurs instead. “I need to talk to him once he wakes up, and after that… If what you’re thinking is right, what can we do?”

Gordon’s voice is quiet, and a little bit reluctant. “I can get him put in solitary, for his protection, but honestly I don’t think it would work. If something like _this_ could slip under the radar, solitary probably won’t help. He could also be transferred to a different prison, but with these kind of injuries, and the Red Hood name behind him? He might not last long anywhere else either.”

That doesn’t leave many good options, and he doesn’t… He doesn’t know how bad Jason will be, when he wakes up. Assuming he does wake up. Assuming there’s anything of Jason left to save, after trapping him in Arkham for so long.

“I need to make a couple calls,” he manages, barely resisting the automatic urge to raise a hand and tunnel it through hair that he doesn’t have exposed anymore.

Gordon’s always seen more than any of them are completely comfortable with — even though at times it can be a blessing — and the older man nods. “I’ll get back to GCPD and make sure there are copies of the security footage uploaded to our system. I assume one of you will want to get a look at it. Doctors said he probably wouldn’t start to wake up for at least three hours, so I’ll make sure nobody but nurses come in so you can stay here. There aren’t cameras, but be careful anyway.”

One hand clasps over his shoulder, and he barely feels it through the layers of armor and the cape but the gesture is appreciated. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and Gordon squeezes and then lets go.

“Don’t do anything rash,” are the final words that come out before Gordon turns and heads for the door.

He can hear the faint murmur of conversation outside it, and that spurs him into some sort of action. He crosses to the window, tugging the curtain over it, and then takes a deep breath and opens a line to Barbara.

“Oracle, you there?”

 _“Reviewing case files,”_ is her immediate answer, and he relaxes just a little bit at the familiar sound of her voice. _“What can I do for you, boy wonder?”_

He scrubs a hand over his jaw, tries not to feeel Bruce’s touch in the rough scrub of leather and fails utterly. “Loop Red Robin into the line, please?” There’s the faint tap of keys, and then the distinctive beep that lets him know Tim’s been added to the call. “Red, got a little time?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Tim answers, _“It’s quiet, except for these **dorks**. Go ahead and talk; I’m moving rooms.”_

He takes in a breath to steady himself, and another glance at Jason to fortify. “I need the security footage from Arkham, all the months Jason’s been there, and any reports associated with him. I want the two of you to get ahold of it and skim through to narrow down the footage to anything with him in it. It’s going to be a lot of work but I need it. Please.”

_“Explanation, boy wonder.”_

He winces, takes another glance at Jason. “He was attacked; he’s been transferred out to Gotham General and I’m here with him. The Commissioner called me, and he’s worried. There are a lot of injuries that are older than this attack, a lot drugs in his system that were never prescribed, and it looks… It looks like he might have been a target from day one.” He falters, and then closes his eyes and quietly admits, “I think I messed up.”

Silence.

“I know neither of you like him that much,” he starts, “and _trust me_ , I haven’t forgotten what he’s done, but he almost died and I’m pretty sure that that’s the least of what he’s been through in there. I’m waiting for him to wake up so I can confirm any of this, but I need that footage. At the very least, something this big slipping under everyone’s notice means that Arkham’s staff needs to be gone through again. The Commissioner said the GCPD haven’t got _any_ reports of fights involving Jason, and that can’t be right. Not with what I’m seeing.”

Babs clears her throat. _“Are you **sure** this isn’t a play for him to escape?”_

“You don’t fake this kind of damage.”

 _“Batman’s right,”_ Tim puts in. _“I pulled up the report from the doctors at Gotham General. If it’s an escape attempt, it’s a really lousy one. Even being one of us, he probably won’t be up and mobile for at least a few days. More, if the x-rays they’ve got processing show as many broken ribs as they think there are. They did what they could for immediate danger, but if he moves the wrong way he could do a lot of damage, or he could puncture something. He’s going to need at least one more surgery; maybe a couple. Depends how he heals.”_

He winces — he’d never gotten all the way through the chart — and then asks, “Are the screening results in? I haven’t looked all the way through his chart yet.”

A beat of silence, and then he can hear Tim draw in a sharp breath. _“Jesus. No **sane** doctor would pair even half what’s in his system. No lethal combinations, but there probably would have been some really nasty side effects and honestly, none of this is the right mix to treat what issues we know Jason has. This **isn’t** the kind of stuff you give to someone with PTSD.”_

A suspicion settles in his gut. “Hallucinations?”

_“Definitely. Probably very vivid ones.”_

“Shit.” The guilt sinks a little lower in his chest, and he looks over at Jason. “The last time I saw him, he mentioned hallucinations. Whatever’s been going on, it’s been at minimum three weeks. Judging by what I remember, probably longer.”

 _“I’ll get started on the surveillance,”_ Barbara promises, with a note of steel to her voice that he’s hugely relieved to hear.

 _“I’ll track down those reports,”_ Tim puts in.

He lets out a small sigh. “I’ll stay here and wait for Jason to wake up. Try and get him to tell me what was happening. Damian can take patrol tonight, and I’ll play backup if he needs it. Thanks, both of you.”

 _“He’s still family,”_ Tim murmurs. _“No matter what he’s done.”_


End file.
